


For the Ones We Leave Behind

by 22umbrellas



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, Dystopia, Eating Disorders, F/M, Future, New York City, POV Third Person, Past Rape/Non-con, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4833536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/22umbrellas/pseuds/22umbrellas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dystopian future, New York City has become a ghost of its former self, barely recognizable. Economic class divisions have been obliterated, written language has been outlawed, and major life decisions are now predetermined by a faceless entity known only as GG. Instead of proper names, newborns are assigned a Class Number and a Letter of the alphabet. In Class 1111, D dreams of becoming the new “Archivist,” a prestigious career assignment that will finally allow him the rare opportunity to write freely without fear of repercussions, but when he gets his wish, the past slowly comes to light and the cracks in their perfect little world begin to deepen and grow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in 2012 and had posted the first two parts on my blog and at ff.net, but I never completed it. It's been 4 years so there's really no excuse, but it took me a long time to get over how terrible Dan and Blair were treated in the last season of the series. Now I'm nearly finished with the new chapter, so I'm introducing it here to a new audience. I’ve never really written anything dystopian before (fanfic or otherwise) and I don’t know if anyone else will find it interesting or if it’s too much of a stretch for a GG fic. But please do leave comments/questions if you have them; I would love to know your thoughts! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Gossip Girl. I also don’t own the countless dystopian, futuristic, and fantastical works of literature and film that I shamelessly culled inspiration from, most primarily Lois Lowry’s The Giver, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Richard Powers’ Galatea 2.2, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, George Orwell’s 1984, Neal Shusterman’s The Dark Side of Nowhere, Mark Dunn’s Ella Minnow Pea, Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, Mary Karr’s poem “Winter in the City of Friendship,” Matt Groening’s Futurama, Andrew Niccol’s Gattaca, Lucile Hadzihalilovic’s Innocence, and Patrick Wolf’s song “The City.”

i.

This is a story about a great many things:

The inexorable future of a city that never sleeps. The flawed workings of a society governed by senseless rules. A rusty old typewriter that holds the remnants of written language in its keys. A secret underground tunnel that leads us to our past.

It’s a story about an elusive and all-seeing dictator known only by the initials TPTB, and the faceless handmaiden who weaves riddles from the threads of our indiscretions and calls herself GG.

But most importantly, this is also a story about an ordinary girl and an ordinary boy. A story about two people who fight and bicker with one another—trading insults like Cabbage Patch accessories—from the beginnings of childhood, who both scorn the other’s existence, despite being told that their futures _are_ each other, and that someday they will get married to each other and have their own children, so that the whole cycle can start all over again.

This is really a story about them: this ordinary girl and this ordinary boy—known to their peers as B and D—who risk everything in an attempt to do the extraordinary.

 

 

ii.

Their society is divided into Classes of twenty-six people each. Newborns are assigned letters at birth, starting with A, then B, and C, all the way down to Z, after which a new Class is created and it begins once again from the top, rinse and repeat. On their 18th birthdays, they’ll be allowed to adopt a proper name from a list of pre-approved choices, but until then, they’re nothing more than a series of letters from the alphabet. These letters are a way of stripping away their individuality and their personalities, a way of making them more alike, more _the same_. In the process—and this is an unfortunate side effect—it also becomes a way of making them less human.

In the Classroom, the alphabet is one of the first things they learn. They even learn how to read, but books are scarce and it isn’t encouraged. They are never taught how to write, how to construct and spell out words and sentences from the letters at their disposal. Nevertheless, some children will always have the natural inclination to do so. In this life, there are several fates for such individuals. Only one of these could be considered a happy ending. Maybe even none.

 

Great things were always expected of their Class. 1111 is a potent number; everyone says so. But from the very beginning, plans go awry. First, A is born premature, sickly and feather-light at a mere four pounds. As a result, she is ready to be delivered before B, who was originally conceived to be the leader—the Queen—of the new Class. Instead, B has to settle for second best. And from there on out, the inauspicious events only multiply.

 

B is everything her parents and the others dreamed of when she first enters the world: fists balled and eyes shut, sandy brown hair already growing out in wispy waves, to darken and lengthen over time. With permanent ink unseen by the naked eye, the nurses mark the inside of her wrist with her basic information (Letter, Class Number, Family Jewel) so she can always be identified, as we all are, like branded cattle.

Next comes C, with a whispery wail that fills the delivery room when he exits his mother’s womb. His is a difficult birth, rife with complications. Even now, the human body is still an unpredictable vessel in need of oxygen and a regular heartbeat. For a few tense hours, the doctors worry that both lives, the mother and the child, will be lost. But somehow the baby pulls through. He survives.

And then there is D, the infant with the dark, untamable curls and bottomless eyes. They can’t help but notice how the fingers of his left hand curl lazily inward, thumb meeting the inner curve of his index finger, as if he were already holding an imaginary pencil. It isn’t long before his parents begin to worry about his future. It isn’t long before GG, who watches in isolation from an unknown location, begins to take a special interest in him.

 

 

iii.

None of the living can remember the city when it was just New York.

They can’t remember the skyscrapers that seemed larger than life, the interconnecting subway lines that ran in a tangle of crisscrossing passages underground, or those five boroughs and the bridges, prejudices, and arbitrary lines that separated them. Now the sun hangs impossibly high, illuminating the outdoors in a perpetual, golden glow. The squat buildings, with their domed ceilings and dark windows, barely cast a shadow.

This place was alive once. It was fluid and ever-changing; it told stories without speaking. The city moved—bright lights in every direction, the horns and squealing tires of traffic playing its own kind of symphony. You could brush past people of any shape or color or origin while walking down the busy streets, on your way to the Met, or MoMA, or the Walter Reade. The Statue of Liberty watched over the city; the silhouette of the Empire State Building was iconic and recognizable from miles away. At the New York Public Library, you could find the archival materials of yesteryear: newspaper articles, sound recordings, artifacts, and diaries.

It isn’t that way now.

Everything they know of their history now, they know from urban legends and old censored films and the few books that TPTB didn’t burn. In other words, they know almost nothing. There are no Polaroid cameras, no smartphones, no way to capture motion on film. If someone sees something beautiful and awe-inspiring—something he wants to remember—he hopes his memory is enough because it’s all he’s got. The past leaves few fingerprints on a present that is disconcertingly sterile and pristine.

But some things haven’t changed. Every year, the old still die while the young are born anew. Every year, we lose a little bit more: history slips through the cracks in the pavement like coins that tumble from our pockets without our knowing, never to pass through our fingers again. Instead, the loose change sinks further and further into the depths of the planet to mingle with the bones and ash of our ancestors, the dead who might gape in horror at what has become of us. With each passing year, the earth’s soil becomes richer and richer, wealthier even than the families that once occupied the penthouses on the Upper East Side.

Meanwhile, our heads empty out like jack-o-lanterns the morning after Halloween, in the days when people still knew of Halloween: the wick of the candle burnt and blackened, the flame long gone.

 


	2. B is for Byzantine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the readers, old and new, who have supported the premise of this story. I'll try my best to give it the ending it deserves. Chapter 3 is about 80% finished. I hope to post it sometime next week.
> 
> For those who are new, it's important to note that while this story focuses mostly on Dan, Blair, Serena, and Chuck (as well as an original character you will see soon), a lot of the other people that make up the world of Gossip Girl will make appearances, sometimes in slightly different forms. For the purposes of this story, Rufus isn’t married to Allison and Eleanor isn’t married to Harold because the fact is their letters just don’t match up. Dorota is still a large part of Blair’s life, but since a Polish maid wouldn’t make sense in the scenario I’ve set up, she is instead Eleanor’s younger sister and her chosen name is Dorothea. 
> 
> All definitions that appear at the beginning of each remaining chapter are from the Oxford American Dictionary.

_Byzantine_ |ˈbizənˌtēn; bəˈzan-; -ˌtīn|

adjective

• (of a system or situation) excessively complicated, typically involving a great deal of administrative detail

• characterized by deviousness or underhanded procedure

 

 

i.

Rule 1: There can only be one Archivist at any given time.

Rule 2: A new Archivist is chosen every fifty years or so.

Rule 3: Archivists do not marry; they do not have children.

Rule 4: After they finish school, archivists live in isolation at an undisclosed location.

Rule 5: Archivists are the ones who record and write our histories, the ones who make sure we don’t disappear when we die.

 

…

 

They’re thirteen years old when the rumors start circulating, sixteen when they actually become a reality. The official announcement comes courtesy of GG, as if it were one of her usual gossip blasts: _Attention New New Yorkers, do I have a secret to share with you! The new Archivist has been chosen and tomorrow you will hear the first clue. Can anybody guess who? You know you love me, GG._

Not everyone wants to be The Archivist. In fact, some are terrified they will somehow be chosen in an egregious error, and they do whatever they can to avoid standing out during the selection process. Many prefer to stay in the background, to blend in with the rest of society, surrounded by people. Others just want to live a “normal” life, even if it’s one that was planned for them. And still others simply have never had the desire to write.

Being the Archivist means responsibility and sacrifice.

Sure, in exchange for their dedication they reap the rewards: a typewriter and a bottomless supply of paper and ink. For those children who always loved words and itched to put them to paper, this is their only chance. If they perform their duties to TPTB’s satisfaction, they are permitted to write whatever they want in their free time. And with dictatorial approval, these writings may even be bound into a book and shared with the rest of the community. But the truth is, an audience matters very little for most of these individuals, who have had a passion for storytelling since they began their schooling. They just want to write. For them, being the Archivist means the prospect of a bright future. It means not going crazy in a mental institution, and not ending up in prison for violating one of the community’s strictest rules.

But B wrinkles her nose in distaste when the news first comes in. “Who wants a rusty old _typewriter_ anyway?” she says loudly, knowing perfectly well who does.

They all see the faded photograph. It’s a frightening mechanism, a monstrous mass of interconnected metal parts: gauges and dials and switches in dull grays and eggshell whites. She can’t help thinking that something about it looks _dangerous_. That in the hands of the wrong person, that _thing_ could be their undoing. Even so, she finds it beautiful in a twisted sort of way. Her hands reach out involuntarily, aching to touch one of the levers. The letter A is on a button to the left… and B, of course, there on the bottom, C next to it, and above that, a D… But she pushes the thoughts out of her head almost immediately after they enter. After a few moments, she realizes her hands are hanging awkwardly in mid-air and she quickly uses them to smooth her hair down.

They’re always watching. She knows that by now.

 

 

ii.

As always, TPTB remains a mystery.

This much is obvious: They are the ones who make the rules, who give the orders. They are the ones who are always watching.

That’s all people really know. Everyone has a theory about what the letters stand for, or what they mean. _Toilet Paper, Toilet Bowl_ , N jokes in a loud whisper, snickering and looking furtively around for the cameras before bowing his head. _The Problem Truth Brings. Trusting People Takes Balls._

B rolls her eyes at all of the speculation and ensuing silliness. As a child, she always dreamt that TPTB were in actuality an exclusive group of four ordinary people (two T’s, a P, and a B, naturally) who had been selected to join the group after their respective graduations, as opposed to being placed in the usual mundane jobs. “I’m going to be the B in TPTB someday,” she used to tell people.

S would try to remind her that their careers would be chosen for them when they finished with school, and to their knowledge nobody had ever been invited to become one of the powerful elite: “I just don’t want you to be disappointed, B. I mean, we don’t even know what TPTB is.” She sounded so sincere and genuinely concerned for her friend. But B knew she didn’t really understand.

As the years pass, it hardly seems to matter anymore. Those were the days of lofty goals and impossible dreams. When B was younger, she thought she could do anything. Now things have changed. A is gone. B is expected to take over as the Class leader. It’s what she’s always wanted—to be the Queen B—but she doesn’t think she knows how to anymore.

 

 

iii.

 _Attention New New Yorkers, and_ _Good Morning, Class 1111_. A disembodied voice greets them at the start of every day, words emanating from a speaker at the front of the Classroom. After a few years, they come to know that tantalizing voice truly well. GG teases them with gossip about broken rules and secret alliances, always in her trademark riddles or rhymes or clever wordplay. She seems to know everything about their lives and she’s willing to spill so that the whole city knows too.

Some like that the dirt she dishes helps keep them on the straight and narrow. Others wear GG mentions like a merit badges on their blazers, as if they are something to be proud of.

B falls somewhere in the middle, depending on her mood. Either way, she can’t help but notice that certain incidents involving herself continue to go unnoticed every time the feed comes in each morning.

For reasons unknown, D is hardly ever mentioned at all.

 

iv.

On the first Sunday of every month, everyone in 1111 is required to attend the appropriate Letter Party. These gatherings are TPTB’s way of fostering a sense of community between residents of all ages who share the same Letter, including those adults who have long since aged out and chosen a proper name for themselves. The idea is that they should serve as mentors for the ones who are young, still floundering and trying to find their way.

There are about a million reasons B hate these parties. First of all, B’s are bad company in general. They are bitter and jealous types. Bitter because of how close they were to being on the top of the Class, jealous because _she_ made it to the top anyway, after the unfortunate circumstances surrounding A’s departure.

But mostly she hates the parties because it means Dorothea, her mother’s younger sister, is always teasing her about D. B often thinks of the woman as a second mother. After all, Dorothea was practically the one who raised B when Eleanor was working long hours at office every night, away from home.

“Mister D is growing into such a charming and intelligent young man,” Dorothea says nonchalantly after each party. “Very handsome now, too. Not so goofy-looking anymore. Don’t you think, Miss B?”

And B sets her mouth in a firm line and tries her best not to lose her composure. “ _No_ , I don’t, Dorothea. You _know_ that. Out of all the people at that party, why must you always insist on talking about _him_?!”

Dorothea responds simply by raising her eyebrows. “Fine, Miss B. I will not mention him any longer.” But then she nods and gives B a knowing smile, and a month later it is more of the same again: “I spoke to Mister D again tonight. You want to hear what he told me?”

After a while, B gives up trying to reason with her aunt, just tunes her out and doesn’t try to protest.

 

v.

Naturally, S is the one who then bears the brunt of B’s frustration with D.

“How could anyone ever think that he and I would be a good match! I can’t even put into words how _absurd_ it is. He’s just…he has to have a _theory_ about _everything_ and I swear to _God_ he never shuts up,” she complains, full of pent-up rage. “You’ve been in Class with him. Just imagine all that”—she sticks out her tongue and makes hand motions like words flying out at an alarming rate—“all that, times…times infinity!”

S laughs lightly like she’s heard it all a hundred times, and she probably has. Her eyes crinkle into half-moons that mirror her easy smile.

“What?” B snaps, pouting a little. “It’s true, and it’s not funny. You’re my _best friend._ I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” S says with a hint of amusement. “You don’t have to get all worked up about it. Anyway, so what if he’s different from most guys? I think he’s sweet.”

“Oh, really?” B scoffs. “No, of _course_ you do. You would, with the way he used to follow you around like a little puppy dog.”

“B!”

“Anyway, I guess you’d rather be with him then. Well! You obviously have _my_ blessing.” She laughs, a little too loudly.

“You know that’s not the way it works,” S says, her voice soft, grin fading.

But B barrels on, as if she hasn’t heard: “It’s not like I would miss all those afternoons of _forced_ conversation,”—she laughs at the mere thought of it—“while he babbles his way through whatever _ridiculous_ notions enter his head, nevermind that no one cares or even understands what on _Earth_ he’s going on about, and why should _I_ be the one—”

“B,” S interrupts finally, “seriously, calm down. You act as if being with him causes you physical pain.”

B glares at her, a spark in her eyes that could set fire to us all. “No, of course not.” She pauses. “This is even _worse._ ”

 

vi.

She would never admit this to anyone, but sometimes she wishes she could be more like S. She would love to be carefree with a perpetually sunny disposition: the kind of girl who walks through a windstorm and emerges without a strand of corn-silk hair out of place. In a way, S is a contradiction. Somehow, some way, she straddles the thin line that separates worldliness and childlike innocence. She doesn’t even seem to notice the effect she has on people, which makes it hard for B to stay mad at her for long.

S is what most people would probably call a wild child in the old days. She is the exact opposite of B: she swallows the rules and regulations that TPTB feed her, she accepts the world they live in and the fact that her destiny is predetermined, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t going to rebel and have a little fun. It doesn’t mean she isn’t going to spit out the pills that they’re all supposed to take daily, the ones that are designed to make them feel numb in every possible way—mentally, emotionally, sexually.

“So what was it like? Not taking the pills? I mean, why is it so important that we take them every day?” B’s fingers toy with the fork in her hand as she pushes the food around on her plate and she tries her best to sound nonchalant but her breath catches in her throat mid-sentence and it sounds like a lie, even to herself. There was a time when she could convince herself of anything, no matter how outrageous and unbelievable. She isn’t sure when that changed.

But S only shrugs, in that lazy way that suggests she really is indifferent. Nothing fazes her. “I don’t know, B. It’s hard to explain.” But she searches for the words anyway: She tries to describe how she feels off-balance. She tries to describe the current that runs through her core like a jolt of electricity. The way her body hums with anticipation. Anticipation of what, she isn’t certain. She stumbles over her words when she talks about the rushes of sadness and happiness and anger, the mood swings that they were never taught how to handle. And she talks about her future husband, the one who was picked out for her years ago when she was a baby, before the umbilical cord had even been severed. They’ve never been taught how to talk about this—about feelings or desires or the everyday things that simply can’t be translated into words. “It was like I woke up,” S says slowly. “Like I’d been asleep a really long time and I finally woke up.” She hesitates. “And suddenly I wanted to touch him. I felt like I wanted to—” S sighs and clasps her hands together, intertwining her fingers, because she doesn’t know how else to describe it—“I wanted us to—” and she shrugs in lieu of a proper conclusion to her story. “That’s what it was like.”

B continues to eat as S talks, sloppy and fervent bites that would probably worry S if she weren’t so distracted by her own story. B doesn’t know why the words make her so hungry. And she doesn’t know why the food isn’t making the hunger go away. “So what happened exactly?” If her eyes are expectant, if S can see how curious she is, she no longer cares. She is the exact opposite of S because unlike S, she lies in the darkness every night and questions this society’s leaders and rules and their fabricated histories. But she would never stop taking those pills. The truth is, she has become too fond of not feeling.

S looks away for a brief moment, as if she is embarrassed. S is never embarrassed. “We…you know, we kissed.” She unlaces her fingers and brings her hands together so that only her fingertips are touching.

B has seen two people kiss one another, but only in the films she knows she probably isn’t supposed to be watching. Even when her parents do it, as she assumes they do, it is behind closed doors. And so she makes a face at S’s gesture. “That’s gross.”

S purses her lips. “Are you sure you want me to tell you all of this?” The more she describes that forbidden encounter, the more outrageous it seems. “What do you and D usually do together anyway?” she asks, knowing it will open a can of worms, another endless diatribe that how incompatible B and D are, and how irritating his incessant chatter is, and how he could really, really use a haircut.

“Nothing,” is all B says. “We hate each other, remember? We don’t do anything together.” She dabs at her mouth with a white napkin. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” She hurries out of the room without so much as a glance at S.

 

…

 

Inside the empty room with tiled walls, B twists the knob of the sink faucet to the left until she hears a rush of water, and she stares at her reflection in the mirror. She wears one hand around her throat like a necklace, her thumb and middle finger reaching to find the pulse at either side of her neck, her palm against the hollow below her throat. She breathes in, she breathes out, and then in again. Her heart pounds inside her chest. She doesn’t twist the knob in the other direction before turning her back to her own face.

When B enters the toilet stall, she slides the latch into place until she hears its satisfying click, metal meeting metal. It’s the sound of being locked inside, the sound of being in control, the sound of being in a safe place. She looks to the ceiling before pulling back her hair and dropping to her knees.

The water runs for a long time.

 

vii.

At night, lying in bed under the covers, B thinks back to the scene that S described, but substitutes D and herself in their places instead. “Gross,” she repeats to no one, “just gross.” Not only the kissing but the fact that she is imagining it, and with D of all people. She doesn’t know why. What she does know is that she spends the rest of the night trying to purge the image from her mind. If only it were as easy as sticking a finger down her throat.

And so she thinks back further: she starts to rearrange letters in her head the way D used to during Class, putting people into groups according to the words their letters formed together. S-C-A-B. S-A-D. B-E-D. B-A-D. But that makes her think of A, which makes her think of C, which makes her think of D again, and it’s all too much right now so she covers her eyes with her open hands like that will make it go away.

 

…

 

The next morning, she wakes up late, her bare legs tangled in the sheets, and she doesn’t quite remember her dreams. All she hears is her best friend’s voice reverberating in her head like a distant echo: _What do you and D usually do together, anyway?_

 

vii.

Mostly, they watch movies. Her father has a whole stash of them locked away in the attic. These are old VHS tapes with the muddy ribbons inside that seem to go on forever, hidden in their unwieldy and unattractive plastic shells, the moving pictures and sounds unwinding and then winding again on the other side. And all they have to do is press play. She’s pretty sure most of the titles are outlawed now, but they take the risk in an attempt fill the silence that wells up between them. They take the risk so they don’t have to talk, so they aren’t constantly aware of the other’s close proximity, and how that makes them feel. Or even the fact that it makes them feel anything at all.

The morning after, she always halfway expects a blast from GG to come through the feed ( _Spotted: B and D spending their Quality Time together partaking in illegal substances_ ) but it never does. She always halfway expects TPTB to infiltrate the house and remove the tapes from her attic, but they never do.

Sometimes, she wonders why. But most of the time, she’s just grateful that, for now at least, the private screenings remain their secret from the rest of the world. She would never admit it out loud, but she doesn’t think there’s anything she enjoys more. And the most troubling part, the part that she would never even admit silently, to her own self: she doesn’t think those afternoons would be quite the same if she had to share them with someone else.

 

viii.

On the weekends, they wash dishes together. It doesn’t make any practical sense, as she constantly points out to anyone who will listen. The dishwashers next to the sink work just as well, if not better. But according to TPTB, or GG—or whoever is supposedly watching, she doesn’t even know anymore—these menial chores will prepare the two of them for their ever-impending domestic life together.

“I don’t understand why we have to do this.” B knows she complains about this every week, but she can’t help it.

D doesn’t reply, just gives her that warning look like he wants to stab her with a knife if she ever utters those words in his proximity again. “Who do you think the new Archivist will be?” he says instead, his voice straining to remain casual and nonchalant.

She snorts. “What, you still think it’s going to be you?”

And then he’s silent for a long minute, and he’s looking down and biting his lip, and she wishes for just a moment that she hadn’t been so harsh. “Yeah, maybe I do,” he says in a quiet voice. “Why not? I mean, is it really such a crazy thought?”

Why not? _Because_ , she thinks. Because they’ve talked about this before. They’ve talked about how Archivists don’t get married. About how they spend the rest of their lives in isolation. About how their intended spouses are re-matched with someone else. In her case, there is a perfect candidate already waiting in the wings: C is alone. C has been alone since A left. And what situation could be more perfect considering the history between the three of them? But maybe she doesn’t want that anymore. Maybe the thought of D leaving confuses her, and maybe the fact that it confuses her, confuses her even more. She never knows what to think anymore. But she doesn’t say any of this aloud. “What makes you think you have what it takes to be _The Archivist_?” she says instead, her voice abrasive. “You’re just like the rest of us. You’ve never _written_ anything.” She doesn’t hesitate to point out that little fact, lest it has gotten lost in the ever-growing fog of his hopeless dreams. “And scratching _D loves S_ into the dirt with a fallen tree branch? Doesn’t count.” She scrubs the bottom of a frying pan until her knuckles turn bone-white and her joints start to ache.

Again he doesn’t say anything, and if she didn’t know any better, she might think she’s hurt his feelings. She wishes she could take it back, if only to hear him _talk_ again, freely, like he can’t stop the words from appearing, one after another. The way he used to. “Wait, how do you even know about—” he finally starts, but then stops, realizing it doesn’t really matter how she knows. “It’s not like that,” he says instead, and it’s not at all what she expects.

“ _What_ ’s not like _what_??” She pounces on his cryptic statement immediately. Because arguing with him is better than the alternative. Because arguing with him is what’s familiar. If she tries to decipher the implications of what he has just said, she’ll be thrown into a world full of unknowns. Her shoulders tremble at the thought and she tries to distract him from noticing by launching into another diatribe. “See, this is what I mean, D. How can you be a writer if you pay no mind to _specificity_ , to _clarity_?”

But he doesn’t let her derail the conversation. Maybe he knows her too well and her face burns at the thought. “Me and S,” he clarifies. “Why do you always have to bring it up? It isn’t like that.”

And she shakes her head at that. “It’s always been like that. It’ll always be like that.” A pause. “Not just with you. With everybody. She can’t even help it, _it’s who she is_.” The words are out before she knows it. She tries to take them back—sucks air into her mouth and swallows—but speech doesn’t work that way.

“She was a childhood fascination. That’s all.” He turns his face towards hers, so that she can’t escape those dark pools he has for eyes. She half expects him to go for the easy kill, to bring up her own questionable past, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even mention C. Or N.

They don’t speak for what seems like hours. The dish soap foams around their hands in a mountain of weightless bubbles, her fingers wrinkling like dried fruit.

He shakes his head in defeat. “Look, let’s just finish these dishes, so we can go back to trying to ignore each other, okay?”

And she nods at that suggestion. For once, she doesn’t argue with him.

 

…

 

 _Why do you hate me so much?_ he asked her once, his serious tone startling her. _I mean, honestly. Why are we incapable of getting along?_

She brushed off the question like the answer was obvious. _Because we just don’t_ work _together. We have nothing in common_. And that was it. That was a good enough reason for her. End of story.

He nodded thoughtfully at that explanation. But then he said, _you know, you and S don’t have anything in common either. And the two of you are best friends._

 

…

 

Sometimes she thinks that they hate each other more out of habit than anything else.

 

 

ix.

She tries to remember a time when they were still kids and she followed orders blindly and didn’t question any of it.

Both A and C were constantly absent from Class, each with their own reasons. A often spent weeks at a time in hospitals, recovering from illnesses that sent her to the ER in the middle of the night. Even though the doctors administered tests and prescribed medications and were constantly changing her diet, she remained thin and frail, her immune system weak. As for C, it was clear that he had no interest in school. His father couldn’t control him, and didn’t try. And once GG realized that her attempts to humiliate him by airing out his dirty laundry every morning were futile, it seemed like she stopped trying too.

There is one memory B never forgets. It happened on a rare day when A was present, though not such a rare day that C was there in Class as well. In fact, the two of them seemed to coordinate their absences in a way that meant they were hardly ever seen together.

There was a lull of silence during the group project that they had been assigned when D suddenly spoke up.

 _We’re BAD together_ , he said, looking up at the two girls.

A only stared at him, a look of confusion evident on her pale face.

B sighed with exasperation. _Just_ what _are you going on about now?_

 _The three of us. B—_ he pointed at her _—and A—_ he pointed at the other girl _—and me, D—_ he tapped a finger at his own chest _. Bad._

B rolled her eyes, her patience waning. _What a fascinating observation, D_ , she remembers saying through gritted teeth. _Can we get back to our assignment now?_

Maybe she was imagining things, but the half-smile on his face looked suspiciously like a smirk. _By all means, B. Why don’t you lead the way, since you seem to think we would all be lost without you?_ His eyes never left her face.

 

…

 

A week later, the new test results came back for A. According to the doctors, she had been diagnosed with leukemia. There was still no cure. That was the beginning of the end for them. Little by little, their foundation was crumbling.

 

x.

When the announcement is made, when GG finally tires of her riddles and games and D is handpicked to become the new Archivist, B lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Her throat tightens as he approaches her to say goodbye. “I guess we got what we both always wanted,” she says.

His silence at those words startles her and she remembers that day, washing dishes at his place, when she had started to doubt. She swallows, tries again.

“We talked about this…right?” she says, her voice faltering a little. “I mean, you always said you wanted…and I wanted…we _both_ wanted…” She trails off.

He regards her with an unreadable expression on his face. “Right.” He rubs the back of his neck in a nervous gesture. “We both did.”

She wants to congratulate him for realizing his dreams, but all that comes out is a strangled cough. She clears her throat, her eyes pleading. For what, she doesn’t know.

“Take care, B.” He takes one last look at S—who is standing to the side, trying to hide the tears that she shouldn’t be crying—before turning back to B and forcing a smile. “Just…take care.”

And then the law enforcement brigade comes, in their regulation black clothing and their distinctive, wide-brimmed hats. She watches as they throw a burlap sack over D’s head and lead him away. “This is a little excessive, isn’t it?” B hears the uncertainty in his faint muffled voice as he speaks one last time, and then he’s gone, the door closing behind him.

 

…

 

Nine months of summer and fall training. He’ll be back next spring, at least until they finish school and then he’ll be gone for good. She feels a strange absence somewhere near the pit of her stomach, like a vital organ that has gone missing from her body without a trace. She doesn’t know what to tell herself. Did she want it after all? Was she hoping that she would be the one chosen? Was she hoping that she was the special one? Or did she secretly not want him to leave? She chooses to stay in denial. She tells herself what she needs to.

A part of her already misses him when she sees his empty seat in Class the next day, but that’s crazy and it makes no sense. The debilitating, yawning blackhole stretches wider and wider inside her body. And she starts to wonder too many things. She wonders why she can’t pinpoint where exactly the hole is, and why her first impulse is to fill it with caviar and filet mignon and pumpkin pie. She wonders when the pills stopped working and when she started _feeling_ things that don’t have names. She doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions, and so she returns to the familiar: she asks to be excused and once again she seeks refuge in the only place she can. And she locks herself away.

 


	3. U is for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who is been waiting patiently for the new chapter. Clearly I was a bit too optimistic when I said I could get it done last week. I hope you won't be disappointed. I know original characters in fanfic can sometimes be a tough sell. The next chapter will be nearly all D and B interaction.
> 
> Though I don't want to spoil any specific plotlines, I need to warn for various dark thematic elements in this chapter. Nothing is described explicitly, but if you are easily triggered, I would proceed with caution.

you |yo͞o|

pronoun [ second person singular or pl. ]

**1** used to refer to the person or people that the speaker is addressing: _ are you listening? _ | _ I love you _ .

• used to refer to the person being addressed together with other people regarded in the same class: _you Australians_.

• used in exclamations to address one or more people: _you fools_ | _hey, you!_

**2** used to refer to any person in general: _ after a while, you get used to it _ .

 

 

i.

This feels inevitable. She’s been watching them all since they were babies—maybe even earlier if you can count watching their parents as watching them, and she does. Generation upon generation, waiting for this day. The cycle never ends.

It’s not long after his birth that she’s taken a special interest in him. _Is he the one?_ By the time he starts school, she already has a nickname for him: Lonely Boy.

Flash forward to the present, when she sees him step out of the shadows and into the light, the burlap sack coming off and she looks at his eyes—still full of wonder and awe and fresh-faced innocence and it’s almost too much to bear because it reminds her of how she used to be before she was taken all those years ago, and that’s the last thing she needs a vivid memory of right now.

D steps toward her with an outstretched hand, ever the polite young man. “You must be the Archivist,” he says. It’s an honor to meet you. I’m D.”

“I know.” She gives him a nod of recognition and sees the flickering in his eyes, the gears inside his head turning. “Welcome to the Archive,” she says, and she gives his hand a firm shake: “I’m nobody.” The confusion is immediately evident on his face. “And everybody.” The quizzical look on his face says that he still doesn’t get it. She tries again: “To put it another way—I’m U.”

 

…

 

It’s late, though time has little meaning in this underground dungeon where there are no windows to reveal the light, or lack thereof. Still, she tries to keep to a strict schedule, marking days off the little makeshift calendar she keeps by the kitchen. It’s the only way to keep from going mad. She heats up two bowls of soup on the small stove and they eat without speaking a word to each other.

His regular pill is waiting for him in a small dispenser, and he takes it with a gulp of water, not giving it another thought. She swallows hers dry. Afterwards, U tells him to get some sleep because tomorrow is going to be a long, long day.

 

 

ii.

She spends the next week introducing him to his new home. The Archive is dark and dank, a cavernous space that seems to stretch for miles and miles. These tunnels were hollowed out long ago for commuters who rode the subway from one part of town to the next, in and out of the city limits. But the trains and tracks are long gone now. D walks up and down the aisles of shelves and it seems to him that they go on forever.

For the first couple of weeks, the two of them live together awkwardly, like mismatched roommates still learning each other’s daily patterns, but gradually they learn the secret to cohabitation. Every few mornings, they receive new supplies, delivered via a chute in the central library: food, toiletries, typewriter ribbons, whatever they might need.

But when D tries looking up the pneumatic tube to get a glimpse of what lies on the other side, all he sees is blackness.

 

…

 

Slowly but surely, U teaches him how the job works—what’s expected of him.

Even on the surface, it’s not quite what he envisioned. TPTB always made it sound honorable and exciting—but this is dull at best. Invasive at worst. Little does he know that there’s more she’s not telling him.

 

…

 

The hardest part is detaching himself from the community he used to call home, becoming purely an observer. Writing daily reports, like a scientist studying the inner workings of a terrarium. These are people he grew up with, looked up to, called “mother” and “father” and “friend.” Now they are like subjects and he is the objective historian who must chronicle their every move with language that feels too formal.

While he works, U is always watching _him._ She can see him thinking it through, puzzling it all out, one piece at a time.

In his free time, he wanders the shelves, lightly running his fingers along the spines of old, dusty journals. These tomes house the work of earlier Archivists. D picks one out at random and starts to open it to the first page when he realizes he isn’t yet ready to open that can of worms. Instead he settles for a worn paperback novel that he doesn’t recognize from his life above ground. He can’t escape the fact that his mind often turns to B as he’s reading. The side plot reminds him of a movie they once watched together. The narrator’s razor-sharp wit reminds him of her affinity for tossing bon mots in his direction. He begins to realize how living in this hub of history and culture might get lonely without anyone to share it with.

At the end of the aisle are an assortment of dictionaries. D picks through them, page by page, during his lunch break. He starts to learn how to spell.

 

 

iii.

U hears typewriter keys clattering late into the night, finds false starts crumpled up in the waste basket of D’s bedroom the morning after.

“Dear B,” he writes. One simple letter; the beginning of another kind of letter. He pauses in front of the page for the longest time. Back when he wasn’t allowed to put them on paper, words flowed from his mind, steady as a waterfall. A nearby dam threatening to burst. Now that he can see the letters staring back at him, they seem so permanent—unalterable. He balks. He removes his fingers from the keys.

_Dear B,_

He lets the first line of the missive linger there.

_I miss you_ , he thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind where it’s safe to think such thoughts. He doesn’t write it down.

 

 

iv.

The days pass quickly at first. He follows U’s example and crosses them off each night, determined not to lose track of time, not to lose himself. His new job is more demanding than he ever imagined. Nearly every minute is accounted for. Hundreds of video screens cover the walls of the underground theater, broadcasting at all hours of the day from every corner of the city. Of course they can’t watch them all.

…

 

A month goes by before he can bear to view some of the streams, the cameras that are hidden in bedrooms and bathrooms and the other places of our lives that were meant to remain private. But nothing is private here. It all feels suspiciously like voyeurism.

“It’s part of the job,” U insists when he protests or squirms. “You _do_ want the job, don’t you? Because we can still find someone else. Maybe we were wrong about you.”

“You weren’t wrong.” He doesn’t say anything else, just forces himself to watch the screens and play the role he was given.

She softens, witnessing this. “It’s not supposed to be easy, you know. It wasn’t for me, either, not at first. In some ways, it still isn’t.”

He doesn’t say much in return, but she can see his mind working overtime when he observes, processing everything he’s been told, everything he’s witnessed.

“Is this where GG gets her material?” he finally asks her one day, anxious to have his fears quelled. He always wondered who she was, what she looked like, how she got the job.

U is silent for so long he begins to think she didn’t hear the question.

“Yes,” she says finally. “Yes, GG reads our observations.” She doesn’t offer any more than that.

He can’t help but think that they could end this now.

 

…

 

When B enters one of the stalls in the school’s restroom, it’s a day like any other. D doesn’t realize at first that she’s not there for the usual reasons. He averts his eyes as a courtesy when she latches the lock, but then she gets down on her knees and jams two fingers down her throat, and all he can see when he looks back at the screen is the back of her head, a mass of her dark brown hair, hovering just above the toilet bowl.

When she looks up again, her eyes don’t just land anywhere. They go directly to the camera, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think she’s looking right up at him—their eyes meeting each other, from miles apart. Her expression is impossible to read. Finally, she lowers her head, flushes the toilet, and walks out of the stall. The camera, of course, doesn’t follow. But when she reappears on another stream seconds later, she is chatting animatedly with S as if nothing is wrong.

D finally tears his eyes away from the scene to look behind him, wanting to see the look on U’s face. She’s watching, too. But she seems more interested in how he’ll react. That’s when it dawns on him: She’s seen this routine many times before.

“You knew about this.” The accusatory tone in his voice is unmistakable to her. The self-righteousness and contempt.

She snorts derisively. “Of course I did. You didn’t? You spend more time with her than anyone.” She no longer tries to keep the judgment out of her voice and he hears it in the center of her statement, like a ticking bomb ready to explode.

_Fuck you_ , he wants to yell, and in another lifetime, he probably would: _Fuck you. You don’t know anything about it—our lives._ He wants to call her a heartless bitch, but she knows that he can’t find the words. He reaches into the darkness of his literary arsenal to find only phrases with blunt edges, too innocuous and tame for the damage he so badly wants to inflict. He’s searching for the kind of words people used to wield like weapons, the ones that would cut you from the inside like a rope of barbed wire, slowly uncoiling and drawing blood. He comes up empty. Those words were stripped from the English language years ago. They barely exist anymore.

“How was I supposed to know? I can’t see everything like you can, you know,” he says, and the excuse sounds weak even to him. “Or at least, not till now. You have no right to judge me.”

U barks out a laugh. “I could say the same to you. What is going on behind those hooded eyes of yours? I know that you think that I look at these screens and I don’t see _people_ anymore, that this is just a game to me now; I don’t have emotions, I’ve forgotten how to _feel_. But that’s easy for you to say. You just got here—you don’t _know_.” Her voice is brittle like an old sponge that crumbles at your touch. He wants to scrub his hands under the tap after he hears it, wants the water to wash away the remnants that seep into his pores and how they makes him ache in all the worst places.

She watches him closely. “For someone who has always claimed to hate her, you sure seem to care about what happens to her.”

“Of course I do. It has nothing to do with hate. She’s destroying herself. I’m helpless. Compassion—it’s only human, isn’t it?”

She laughs again, like his words have no weight in this chamber. She can tell it is taking everything in him not to rage at her. “Human?” she says. “What do you know about being human? What do any of you know about being human?”

She’s right, he thinks. Humanity doesn’t look like this. They might as well be robots, programmed by TPTB to carry out their assigned tasks, to follow the herd. Worse yet—puppets held up by strings.

For the remainder of the day, his mind swirls with thoughts and questions: What did it all mean? To what end? For what purpose? And why keep them in the dark? He’s so distracted by his queries and that gnawing guilt, that for the first time in his life, D forgets to take his pill.

 

 

v.

“Dear B,” he writes again, but can’t finish the thought. Another false start, another crumpled page finding its way into the trash.

_I know now_ , he wants to say, but his fingers won’t obey, won’t type out the words.

_Why?_ , he wants to ask, but he thinks he already has an inkling. To fill an unfillable hole.

For the first time, he feels like he’s had a glimpse of some secret part of B that she keeps hidden from everyone else. But why did it take a strategically-placed camera for him to notice? U wasn’t wrong to place the blame on him. He should’ve seen it much earlier. 

 

…

 

_You’re the truest person I know_ , he thinks later, when he’s lying in bed and can’t sleep a wink. _I think you’re beautiful the way you are_. But it’s a fleeting thought that dissolves like a powder tablet the moment sleep finally comes: _You don’t need to do this to yourself._ And when he sleeps, he dreams of the past he’s read about in the books among the library. About life as it existed hundreds of years ago. Chaos and passion. Love and hate. A mixture of beauty and ugliness—two sides of the same coin. _You don’t need to do this to yourself._

_We don’t need to do this to ourselves._ He doesn’t write it down, not under the bright glare of the next morning. It’s only a metaphor. He realizes that day that he hasn’t seen sunlight in months.

 

 

vii.

He isn’t supposed to give them any special treatment, but D spends more time than he would care to admit watching the feeds for Class 1111. He can’t help it. He grew up with these people. For better or for worse, he’s invested in their lives and in what happens to them. He’s come to care about them, all of them: B and S and N and even C. And this is the only connection he has with them now, however one-sided it may be.

S continues to rebel, amassing quite a collection of un-swallowed pills. B spends more time than ever locking herself away in the restroom. C is on a path to self-destruction. D worries about all of them from afar.

He even makes sure to watch A in the hospital as she begins her final decline. Her desk in the classroom empties out. She no longer joins the others in their lessons at all.

He watches as she’s pumped full of poison. As she pukes her insides out. As her hair falls out. As she’s subjected to yet another MRI, another round of false hope and bad news. The tumors keep spreading, and with them, the rumors of her inevitable fate are spreading, too.

Technology has made significant advancements over the past century, but medicine has stagnated. We’ve traded lifelines for circuit boards. It’s clear that she isn’t going to get better. That it’s only a matter of time. He watches the nurses go in and out of her room, their expressions betraying a stream of positive and uplifting words. Anyone could see she’s halfway out the door.

Pretty soon, he can’t bear to watch anymore.

 

 

viii.

On a day that feels like it might never end, C takes B to the rooftop of the city’s last remaining high-rise, where the sky above them is full of stars. No longer surrounded by too many lights, so much smog. You can finally see stars in New York City, but now no one stops to look at them in wonder. No one marvels at the great expanse of the universe anymore.

D flips a switch on the dashboard, and the scene fills up on the main screen.

On the roof, C has B’s forearm in a vice-like grip, his face is inches from hers. “Do you know how it feels, knowing, that she would rather die, than be with me? Don’t you abandon me, too.” His grip tightens, nostrils flaring.

From his vantage point, D can’t see B’s face, but he can tell by her body language that she’s scared. She’s just too proud to ever admit it. “You act as if she had a choice,” she tells C, and her voice is shaky. “Your mother, A, either of them. They didn’t, you know. Sometimes accidents happen. Sometimes they aren’t even accidents, they’re just things that happen. Random things, they don’t mean anything. Just bad luck. Flukes of nature. Not everything revolves around you, C. You’re not the _reason_ the world is the way it is.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? Reasons don’t affect results in the end. Either way, they’re both dead! They’re both gone.”

“And I’m sorry, C. I really am. But what does any of this have to do with me? You and I, we’re not meant to be.”

He scoffs. “Who else is there? D?” C says his letter like it’s nothing, like the very notion is preposterous. “You know he left too, right? He’s not coming back to be your Prince Charming. I thought you’d be glad.”

There’s a long silence. D wishes he could see her face when she says, quietly, “I can’t talk about this with you right now. Please let go of me.”

To his surprise, C obliges.

He lets her go, just like that. It’s all too easy.

He leads her back down the stairs, out of sight from the view of one camera, right onto another.

He’s found dead the very next morning, on the pavement next to the building. His wrist is carved open in the shape of a C, like he was trying to dig something out, some part of him that could never be removed. One by one, the dominoes are falling. C always had a penchant for theatrics.

As far as D can discern from the video feed, the medical examiner ultimately finds that his stomach was full of pills from Serena’s stash. That he was so numb he didn’t even feel a thing when he hit the ground.

 

…

 

D can’t help noticing that B excuses herself to the restroom more and more frequently in the following weeks. Each time, just as before, she looks up at the camera before flushing the toilet. The expression on her face is still unreadable, but it’s almost as if she’s testing whoever is on the side—trying to see if anyone, somewhere, someplace, actually cares.

_I do_ , he thinks. _I care. I just wish I knew how to help from all the way out here._

 

…

 

He walks in on U composing on her typewriter, mumbling to herself, sounding out yet another rhyme. Her fingers leap across the keys with the grace of gazelles’ legs, nearly silent. She’s about sick of trying to find new ways of saying the same thing. Always speaking in riddles, saying absolutely nothing _all the damn time_. That’s when D walks in and finally puts two and two together, finally figures out her secret.

“So you’re GG, huh?” Halfway in the room and halfway out, he stands there framed by the doorway. “When were you going to tell me?”

She looks him in the face, caught, and she realizes that more than anything she is relieved he finally knows. She’d had no idea how to break it to him. “I’m U,” is all she says in response, just like that first night, but now he hears it differently: “I’m you.” _I’m you. You’re me._ In that moment, it hits D that this is the post he’s supposed to be taking over. 

“No,” he says, and his voice sounds more authoritative than he feels. “No, I’m not going to do it. That isn’t what I signed up for.”

She gives him a wry smile. All at once, it’s like the years she’s lived appear on her face, around the corners of her eyes. “You know you don’t get to choose.”

He’s starting to get that now. Suddenly that old life he’s been reading about doesn’t look so bad after all.

 

 

ix.

“Dear B,” he begins again, fingers hovering over each of the letters on his trusty typewriter, and now he has so much to say that he doesn’t know where to begin. So he just starts writing. He doesn’t second-guess himself this time. He understands now that he no longer has that luxury. Perfection. Criticism. Self-doubt. Those were the things that kept people from ever communicating, evolving, taking action. Becoming the people they were meant to be. Worst of all, there’s the paralyzing fear. But they can’t afford to be scared now.

“I think I made a mistake,” D types, and immediately wants to press backspace, delete it and write the words over. But instead he keeps going, fingers moving on their own now. “This isn’t anything like I thought it would be. Being the Archivist isn’t what I thought it was. Writing isn’t as easy as it always seemed. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Tell me what to do.” He can’t believe he is asking B of all people for advice. He can’t believe that he’s admitting to himself that she’s the one whose opinion he trusts, but he thinks that it’s always been true.

“The more I learn about this place, the more I think I’m not supposed to be here. I think I understand now why they keep the past hidden from us. Why they banned all those books and movies. Why they won’t teach us how to write. Something bad happened here. They don’t think we can handle freedom. But why do a handful of people get to decide what’s best for everyone? They’ve erased everything that’s beautiful about our lives. There’s so much outside that we don’t know about. Do you ever wonder what’s out there? Do you ever look up at the sky? You’re the only one I can talk to about this stuff. Please take care of yourself.”

_I miss you_ , he thinks again. This time types it out, rubs his thumb over the words. The ink smudges, but the imprint the letters have made on the paper remain. Permanent.

 

 

x.

U can hear him tossing and turning at night. She can hear him give up on sleep and stumble over to his desk, where he’ll insert a fresh sheet of paper into the machine. She can hear the rhythm of the typewriter keys, like percussion instruments in a jazz band, syncopated beats drumming through her head till morning—each individual letter working together to help him say whatever he needs to say, get those buried feelings and idea out of his chest. She’s been there before. But those wells of words have long since run dry for her.

Her minds wanders as her eyes roam around the room, barely identifying the dark shapes around her. She thinks about how felt like the outcast for decades, stranded alone on this deserted island called The Archive. When she thinks of the rest of her Class, she thinks about how they all grew up, chose names, started families. She’s never had any of those things. But she comforts herself with the fact that all the “U” names were ugly anyway: Ursula, Umbria, Uma. U is the letter of negation. Untold, Unforgiven, Ungrateful. The list never stops. No, she told herself it was better this way.

Decades earlier, she was just another young girl with so many impossible dreams. She yearned to write, even though she knew it was bad. That she shouldn’t, couldn’t. But she came into the world loving words. She didn’t even need a full stories with beginnings, middles, and ends, once-upon-a-times, happily-ever-afters—none of that. She just needed words in her life. She imagined taking them apart, putting them back together, studying their etymologies and elegant shapes. Their quiet power fascinated her.

And then one day, her dream came true. She’d never thought she could be chosen because, as her worried parents constantly reminder her, she was born about fifteen years too early. It wasn’t even time for a new Archivist yet. But they made an exception or something—she didn’t know the details. She was so happy she didn’t even ask for an explanation. She just let them take her, cover her head with the burlap sack and take her to live here for nine months, to learn from the Archivist before her, just as D was doing now.

But the experience wasn’t at all what she thought it would be, mostly in the subtle ways that our imaginations always prove different from reality. She could live with those minor discrepancies. No, the problem was that the Archivist before her was a lonely middle-aged man who had stopped taking his pills. Like her, he’d never had a chance at a “normal” life. He’d spent half his life watching other people fuck on endless screens when he only had his hand to keep him company.

She was seventeen when she first arrived for training, still so naive and sheltered. He didn’t seem like such a bad guy at first. He didn’t cross any lines. But bit by bit, things began to change. His gaze would linger too long at the breakfast table. He would place his hands on her even though she knew he must realize that it made her uncomfortable. The day that he forces himself on her is the day she lets her fear take hold of her life, and it never quite lets go. It happens in the stacks inside the library. _Right there._ Between those shelves. The memory has dulled with time, become less visceral, but she still can’t escape the feeling every time she walks past the spot where it happened. The worst part is she’s had to keep living here all those years.

In the darkness of her bedroom, she can still hear D pounding away in the next room. By the sheer volume of his keystrokes she can guess that he’s angry. _Good._ Anger is good. She’s glad he’s found a way to channel it. She closes her eyes and the sound slowly morphs into a lullaby that sends her off to sleep.

 

…

 

At breakfast the next morning, U catches D looking at her with a curious expression on his face. “Are you okay?” he asks. His own eyes are bleary with sleep. She can tell that he was up all night, writing.

She nods. There’s a silence, and then she decides to add, “You were right, before. When you said I can’t see everything. But that’s not the point. After a while, it all starts to blur together, the bad and the good. You’d be surprised at how fast it gets old, being privy to the whole city’s most intimate moments. Seeing behind closed doors. Learning everyone’s secrets. Deciding which ones to keep, which ones to expose. It isn’t long before you wish there weren’t cameras _anywhere_. That we could all live our lives without worrying all the time about being _seen_. I’m tired, D. I’m old. I don’t want to play God anymore.”

U can see that he thinks he’s been here long enough to empathize, to understand, but these are the things you can never really fathom until you’ve lived it in real time, until you’ve been the one watching and waiting for a lifetime. It eats at you. She hopes he never has to know that feeling.

“Did you ever think that maybe you could be the one to change it?” D finally says, and when he does her chest tightens with guilt. It sounds like an accusation, even if that’s not how he means it. “Do you really think these people, this TPTB, actually have power over us? What can they do to us if we don’t obey?”

The truth is, she’s thought that for a long time, but she isn’t brave enough.

The truth is, she noticed early on that he had a preference for his left hand, a trait even more rare now than it used to be. She thought maybe that signified a rebel in the making, someone who could grow up to fight against the grain.

The truth is, she thinks she’s ready to do her part now.

 

…

 

They make careful plans in D’s last few months of training. Outside, the city is already changing. GG rarely interrupts lessons with her rhymes anymore. No one asks them why. Their supplies still arrive regularly through the usual chute. They wonder if this will be easier than they thought, but of course nothing is.

D leaves in the spring with his last letter to B sewn into his back pocket. He gives U a wink right before they slip the burlap sack back over his head and whisk him away.

 


	4. D is for Dionysian

 

Dionysian |ˌdīəˈniSHən|

adjective

 **1** _Greek Mythology:_ of or relating to the god Dionysus.

 **2** of or relating to the sensual, spontaneous, and emotional aspects of human nature.

  * _dark, grand Dionysian music_




 

 

i.

The walk back home is a long one. 

D doesn’t even remember The Archive being this far away when he was first taken, but at least the lengthy journey gives him time to think and reflect. _Home_. It’s a funny word. He doesn’t even know what might be waiting there for him anymore. 

Just when he’s starting to think that he’s been tricked, that they'll be walking around blindly forever, his escorts stop abruptly in their tracks. One by one, D hears deadbolts sliding free of their constraints. Clink, clink, clink. A heavy door opening. The world around him brightening. Then the hands that grip him by the elbows push him forwards towards— 

All at once he’s enveloped by the familiar sounds and smells of his childhood, sensations that no words in the dictionary could ever adequately describe. Pinpricks of light shine in through the holes of the burlap sack on his head. Even the air moves differently above ground. He hadn’t realized how much he’d grown accustomed to life in the Archive until now. It turns out nine months is a long time to be gone. A lot can change, both on the surface and beneath it. And yet somehow, the "real world" suddenly feels false.

He doesn’t realize his legs have stopped working until he feels a forceful pull and a gruff voice: “Keep walking.” Those are the first words they’ve said to him since this journey began.

He hears hushed whispers as they make their way through the city, and he tries to block them out. He knows what this must look like: the boy with the bag over his head, the boy who needs the law to guide him home, the boy who was chosen to take over the most prestigious position in this community. He imagines the people pointing and staring and gossiping as he walks past. Then he imagines the same people looking past and ignoring him, as if he’s already a ghost.

Overwhelmed with memories and emotions, D wills himself to focus on the task at hand: counting steps and marking turns. Before long, he’s emptied his mind of everything but this mental map. It’s the one thing he has that can maybe save them.

 

 

ii.

The twists and turns pile up until his brain is straining, but just when he feels like it might explode, he senses, with immense relief, an atmosphere that is distinctly home. His escorts from the law enforcement brigade bring him to a halt, yank off the sack, and deposit him at the front door of the loft. 

They’re gone before D can say a thing, and Rufus opens the door immediately afterward. He must’ve been waiting right there on the other side for them to arrive, doesn’t even wait for his son to knock.

D doesn’t realize till now how much he’s missed the comfort of his father’s arms wrapped around him.

Rufus says, “I’m so glad you’re home, son,” and his voice is filled with such emotion that D nearly starts weeping right then and there. Till the day he left, his daily pill had kept on coming down The Archive’s chute like clockwork, but he hasn’t taken it in months. 

“I was just about to make breakfast. You want something to eat?” Rufus' eyes are hopeful as he finally releases his son from a tight embrace.

“Actually, you know what Dad, I’m not feeling very hungry.” D fidgets, recognizing the need to lock this map down somewhere before he loses it all. But Rufus looks crestfallen and D knows how much his father just wants to spend the morning with him, to catch up. They have so little time left. “But maybe later? After I’ve had a few minutes to...” He gestures helplessly towards his bedroom.

“That’s alright. You get some rest.” Rufus pats him on the shoulder. “Take as much time as you need, D.”

...

In the closet, D finds a display board and a sheet of adhesive dots. He spreads them out on his desk and gets to work. Over the next half-hour he gets lost in mapping out the city, starting with his present location and working his way backwards until he thinks he has a good idea of how he might get back to the Archive.

Suddenly he feels someone’s eyes on him, and when he looks up, his sister is standing in the doorway.

“J,” he says. He tries to keep the surprise from his voice. “Um, what’s up? You startled me." He tries to shield the drawing he’s created on his desk by angling his back towards the door.

“Your hair looks like a bird’s nest.”

He rolls his eyes in her direction. “Thanks for that insight, J. That’s very helpful."

She tries her best to suppress a giggle. “What’re you doing over there?”

“Nothing much.” He should probably leave it at that, but he can feel the words coming like a flood, and then it's too late: "It’s just some stuff...that I was supposed to do for school before I left, or actually I was supposed to do it after I came back, which now I have, so...” He trails off and immediately makes a face. _Shut up, D._

She doesn’t move from the doorway, just stands there twisting sections of her long hair around an extended finger like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. “Well, welcome back.” She turns to leave, but calls over her shoulder, “And don’t worry, I didn’t touch your precious Cabbage Patch."

His eyes fly to the shelf in the corner of the room, where his childhood Cabbage Patch doll sits along with a few trinkets and mementos, amid nondescript decor. After his map is complete, D retires to his bed and looks around at the plain walls and the empty shelves. No typewriter on the desk, of course. Already, he sort of misses his other bedroom, the one down in The Archive. He misses the endless rows of books, movies, and music, available for borrowing at anytime. 

He’s startled out of his daydream by the familiar sounds coming from the kitchen. Rufus is going about his daily morning routine. Drawers open and shut. Wooden spoons bang against metal pots and pans. The tea kettle squeals, and silverware jangles. 

And all at once, it dawns on D that this isn’t just noise: His father is making music. All the little movements and gestures Rufus has always made that generate sound, however mundane—they’re what D once thought of as odd, idiosyncratic behavior, but he can see now that it’s much more than that. They’re steady beats, rudimentary melodies, musical instruments hidden in plain sight. He lays there on his bed for a long while and just listens to the cacophony of sound as it drifts to his bedroom. Appreciating its existence.

 _Somehow_ , he thinks idly, as he drifts off to sleep, _TPTB got it all wrong_. Well, all except for maybe one thing. The irony of that doesn’t escape him.

 

 

iii.

The following Monday, D is forced to return to school like all the others his age. He’s officially behind on his lessons. He hasn’t been keeping up with whatever everyone else is learning in their last year of schooling, but after his nine-month foray into the hidden history of this world, he’s sure most of what they’re teaching is garbage anyhow. 

When he gets back to the usual Classroom, he’s surprised to find that B isn’t there. In fact, their old table is now completely deserted: no A, no B, no C, no D. Seeing the empty seats makes their absence feel devastatingly real. _What exactly went wrong here?_ , he wonders. _Who let this happen? And most importantly, can he really be the one to fix it?_

That morning, the usual GG blast never comes crackling through the loudspeaker. D hears murmurs all around him, curiosity brewing in its absence. 

He finds out quickly that B has been in the infirmary all weekend. “Treatments," their teacher says, as if this is all a normal occurrence. “Rehabilitation.” No one will elaborate beyond those one-word answers. 

Finally, S comes up to him during lunch. “You want me to take you to her?” She seems almost shy around him, and that’s new. It’s so unlike the S that D remembers. But all those old notions he had about her are fading, too. He’s looking at the world through a new lens, and that includes the people he used to think he knew. “Of course she’d never admit it to me,” S says, “Or to anyone really, but I think she’ll be really glad to see your face.”

He finds it hard to hide how glad he is to hear those words.

 

 

iv.

D catches a glimpse of B through a narrow window in the door while they’re still standing in the corridor. Her back is facing them, covered by a plain white gown, dark wavy hair falling across her shoulders. It’s the standard dress code for everyone during their stay in the infirmary, but on her, the normally drab clothes look like they could be decorating the pages of yesteryear’s fashion magazines. She actually takes his breath away a little.

At the sound of the door opening, B turns her head.

“Hey, B,” S says. “I brought a friend this time. I hope that’s okay.” 

And D stops in his tracks when her eyes meet his across the way. The way she looks at him—it somehow seems softer than before. Less severe. But then she speaks and when she says, “Look who _finally_ decided we were worth coming back for,” he’s relieved to find her trademark haughtiness still remains. She looks him up and down but her eyes settle on the top of his head. “No scissors down there in The Archive, D? Or just no mirrors to aid you in keeping up with your personal hygiene? How _primitive_." But a teasing smile plays on her pink lips. He’s noticing for the first time how beautiful they are. How much he suddenly wants take them between his own.

But D just chuckles. He knows she doesn’t really mean any harm. “How are you, B?” 

“I’m…about as good as I’ll ever be. A  _model patient_ , I think they called me.” She sighs and forces a smile. "But lucky for you, that’s not really anything you need to concern yourself with anymore, is it?” 

Is it just his imagination or is her comment laced with disappointment? It must be his imagination. “How can you even say that?” he asks.

“Well, I’m not wrong, am I? You might be here now, but you’re going to leave again in another few months. This time for good. Off to be  _pretentious,_   _self-important_ , and  _all-knowing_ —doing whatever it is you people do down there.” She rolls her eyes. "Tell me something, D. Did you find out who TPTB _really_ is while you were away? They’re not exactly looking for new members, are they? No, let’s face it. You lucked out with the only one-way ticket out of here for the next fifty years. So… _congrats!_ ” Her sarcasm is more than evident. “No need to bother with the rest of us little people between the walls.” 

Her piercing eyes dare him to argue with what must seem like foolproof logic to her.  D holds her gaze but doesn’t confirm or deny her fears.

S looks back and forth between the two of them and quietly excuses herself. “I’ll—leave the two of you alone.” She tiptoes back out the door. It closes behind her but he barely notices the sound.

“I saw what C did,” he says finally after the quiet becomes too much to bear. “I saw the whole thing. I’m really sorry, B.”

She glares at him. “No you’re not. You've never liked him.”

“That may be true, but part of being a human being is having compassion, even for those we don’t necessarily like or understand.” D remembers his argument with U, about whether they can truly call themselves humans living inside this society. He knows they have to start doing better.

There is so much more he wants to say to her. The letter he wrote back in The Archive is still sewn into that old pair of pants back home. He’s been paralyzed with fear since his return. Most of the time, he doesn’t know if he believes he can carry out the plan after all.

“So is that why you just left us here?” B finally asks, her voice breaking into his thoughts. “You know, S isn’t as strong as she pretends to be,” she adds quickly, and it occurs to D that the person B really means might be herself.

He thinks maybe he loves her.

 

 

v.

D could feel his mother drifting away even before she actually physically left them. That started about two years ago. She just began spending less and less time at the loft with the family, little by little, until one day he realized she was hardly ever home at all. 

She still shares a bed with Rufus every night, of course, but it’s like they don’t really occupy the same life anymore. She never says much at the dinner table. He’s not sure how she spends her time between work and sleep, and she doesn’t offer any explanation. He only knows that her clothes are often stained with mysterious splashes of color that won’t come out in the wash. He only knows that she spends a lot of time staring at their empty white walls. He thinks that her head must be filled with pictures of whatever she imagines could be hanging there.

…  

These days, D also sees his father differently. Actually, he sees everybody differently. Every _thing._  During breakfast, Rufus hums a tune softly under breath. His fingers tap the kitchen counter as if willing it to become a piano with working keys. And D hears it again, this time up close: The gas burner comes to life with a series of clicks. Blue flame blooms underneath the pan. Something inside sizzles. It’s music. It’s like D’s been given backstage passes to a private concert, right here in the kitchen.

Between mouthfuls of homemade waffles, D has the sudden courage to ask what’s been on his mind. “Dad, I’ve been wondering, and you don’t have to answer this, but did you ever—“ He stops and starts again. “Let me put it this way: Did you ever think you might want a life with someone, well, other than Mom?” It’s a bold question, and probably comes out of the blue. D’s essentially asking something that isn’t allowed. He’s asking his father to admit to something scandalous. Rufus knows it. He could never say yes. 

But his father's slight hesitation still gives him way. “What makes you ask that?” he asks, finally.

D chews in silence, not answering immediately. He can think of more than a few lasting memories, especially old ones from his childhood, that suddenly make sense. Stolen glances in public between Rufus and another woman, an unspoken longing that he once thought he’d imagined: in front of the deli counter, in line at the bank. But now he just looks down at his breakfast and tells Rufus, “Nothing. Forget it.” What he really wants to say is: _You can have that life, if it’s what you still want. We don’t have to play by their rules. What if we didn’t? What if we stood up for what we believed in? The things we’re passionate about, the things we love?_

He doesn’t know if his father is able to infer all that subtext from his terse response. But when D raises his head again, Rufus is pensive, a look of wonder apparent on his face. “What happened to you out there anyway? Why all the questions, the sudden curiosity?”

D's mouth opens, but the words don’t follow. He wants badly to say something, to tell his father what he found underground. The plan. But he can’t say it. Not yet. “You know that I can’t—that I'm not allowed to talk about any of that.”

A flicker of disappointment in Rufus’ eyes. “Yeah, of course. I know all that, but I just thought…”

D doesn’t let him finish his thought. “I gotta—“ he searches for the right way to put it "—I need to think about my next move first.” And he downs the remainder of his orange juice in one gulp before standing up. "Someday, okay? I promise.”

Rufus nods almost imperceptibly, not quite believing, his mind already lost in another song only he can hear.

 

 

vi.

In the safety of his room, D cuts the threads that bind the paper he smuggled out of The Archive to his jeans, and re-reads the words he wrote on his rusty typewriter (an open letter to B, to anyone who will listen), finally having the courage to do it out here. What happened down there all those months—it seems faraway now, like a hazy dream. He wishes U were here to give him another pep talk he so desperately needs. 

_Dear B,_

_I think I made a mistake. This isn’t anything like I thought it would be. Being the Archivist isn’t what I thought it was. Writing isn’t as easy as it always seemed. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Tell me what to do._

If this were a movie, like those black & white ones they used to watch together at her family's apartment, B would be shown reading the letter to herself on screen as he spoke the same words out loud in voiceover. That was just how movies worked, D realizes now. Movies have a way of constructing bridges across time and space, connecting two people who are physically apart. That was why stories, and the many forms they took, were so invaluable to our society.

He remembers watching a suspense film with B when they were younger: the tense music that emanated from the speakers, the dark shadows crawling across the screen, the promise of something frightening about to reveal itself. Instinctively, he reached across her lap and took her hand in his. She let him keep it there for a long moment, until the terror on film had subsided, before pulling her hand away. Their eyes never left the moving pictures. They never talked about it afterwards.

Now, in his bedroom, D continues reading his letter:

_The more I learn about this place, the more I think I’m not supposed to be here. I think I understand now why they keep the past hidden from us. Why they banned all those books and movies. Why they won’t teach us how to write. Something bad happened here. They don’t think we can handle freedom. But why do a handful of people get to decide what’s best for everyone? They’ve erased everything that’s beautiful about our lives. There’s so much outside that we don’t know about. Do you ever wonder what’s out there? Do you ever look up at the sky? You’re the only one I can talk to about this stuff. Please take care of yourself._

_I miss you._

Seeing those typewritten words outside the safe confines of The Archive is enough to rattle his nerves again. It all sounds too personal. If he gives it to her, she'll just read it and laugh, or make some biting remark, as is her nature, and this time he doesn’t know if he can take that when he’s poured his heart and soul onto this piece of paper.

He turns the letter over in his hands and notices something that wasn’t there before. A series of five faint numbers, printed on the back. U’s handwriting. He thinks it must be a code. And he thinks he knows what it unlocks.

 

 

vii.

A week passes, slower than he’d like, and then D finds himself facing the first Sunday of a new month. As usual, there’s a Letter Party scheduled for tonight—his first since he’s come back home. He's looking forward to chatting with Dorothea again, just like old times. He’s not looking forward to the stares. 

D gives his curly mop of hair a trim in the bathroom mirror, doing the best he can with a comb and bottle of gel to sculpt it into something neat and presentable. He takes a deep breath. _Tonight’s the night_ , he thinks, as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. _Do we dare disrupt the universe?_

Now that he’s back above ground and confined in this city, he is fast realizing that everyone who lives in New New York is different. Nobody quite fits into the immutable box that TPTB demands of them. On one end of the spectrum is S’s little brother, E, who D suspects will ever be happy with his chosen mate—and for reasons entirely different from his father’s.  And then there are people like his kid sister, who is so talented that D thinks what a shame it would be if she isn’t allowed to pursue what she’s most passionate about. Why  _should_  someone else dictate who we love? Why _shouldn’t_ we get the power to make life-altering choices for ourselves?

He finds J in her room as she’s getting ready for her own Letter Party, cutting up old clothes with expert precision, a large pair of scissors in her hands. She stretches the fabric between two hands and after the resulting strings elongate and curl, braids them together to create shoulder straps. She holds up the new garment against her body as she admires her reflection from different angles in front of the mirror. He can only guess at the wild ideas she must be imagining in her head.

D clears his throat and tries to sound nonchalant. “Hey, I’m heading out. We’re having a little celebration tonight at the Party. I just saw Dad already left, so tell him not to wait up, okay?” He has a hard time getting out the last few words. This is going to be harder than he thought it would be.

J looks away from the mirror and lowers her new dress to her waist. Her expression is melancholy. “You’re not coming back tonight, are you?”

He doesn’t know when his little sister became so perceptive. Well, no use denying it now. “I don’t think so, J.”

She nods, as if she’s been expecting this. “Do you think you'll ever come back?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.” He bites his lip. “I don’t want you to be mad—"

She cuts him off. “I’m not. I know you have your reasons, big brother.”

“Yeah, I do. I hope someday you and everyone else will know what they are. In the meantime, take care, okay? Tell Dad not to worry.”

She laughs a little. “You know he’s going to worry anyway, but I will.”

D looks at her again, his little sister who has already grown so much in the ten months since he left last time, both in height and maturity. He’s so proud of her. “I don’t know anything about clothes, but whatever you’re doing looks amazing. I really mean that.” He turns to leave.

“Thank you,” she says. "D?”

“Yeah?” He looks back at her.

“Nice haircut.” She grins to let him know she’s only half-teasing, and just like that, he’s gone again.

…

At the party, Dorothea rushes toward him immediately, thrilled to see him after the long absence. She and her husband had been chosen to conceive right before D left, and they just welcomed their first child, Z, a couple weeks ago. In all the commotion of his final days underground, D had completely missed the birth, which of course should’ve been caught by the hospital cameras. 

Dorothea beams when he asks about the baby. “I cannot wait for you to meet her. You will love her.” She talks excitedly for a few more minutes, then lowers her voice: “But now we need to discuss the important things...”

“What could be more important than your newborn baby?” D is genuinely confused.

“Well, B, of course! You know, she always keeps heart locked, like inside a cage. So, it's not easy to know what she is really thinking. But I tell you a secret.” Dorothea leans in conspiratorially so her mouth is inches from his ear. "She is much happier now that you’re back. She’s making such progress. Please do not leave again, D. I do not like to see her so lonely.”

He takes another deep breath. “Well, I won’t be going back. At least not for good. So you don’t have to worry, Dorothea. Actually, do you think you could take me to her after the Party? I’d really like to see her tonight.”

Dorothea looks around the room at the others before turning back to D, her dimples deepening. “Yes, I think this is something I can arrange.”

...

When D arrives at her family home with Dorothea, B is getting ready for bed. She still has on the flowery dress she wore to her Party that night, but her hair is down and cascading down her back in waves. She nearly knocks over a bunch of toiletries when she notices D enter the room.

“D, what in the world are you _doing_ here?” B looks sharply at her aunt, who’s following close behind. “Dorothea, have you lost your _mind_?

“Please listen to what he has to say, Miss B,” is all the woman says before she leaves the two of them alone and shuts the bedroom door tight. 

B throws up her arms, first in confusion, then in resignation. She looks to D again. “Fine. What is it you want from me at this hour exactly? And this better be good because _believe me_ , I have had a _very_ difficult night..."

There’s no time to wait for her never-ending monologue to complete. “B, I just need to know one thing—do you trust me?”

He holds his breath as he waits for her to scoff at him, or worse, burst out into full-fledged laughter. But maybe she reads between the lines and realizes the gravity of the situation. Or maybe she’s just honest with herself, because she only nods, her eyes curious.

“Then please come with me tonight. There’s something I need to show you."

To his surprise she takes his hand and follows, no questions asked. His letter is still safe in his back pocket when they escape out her bedroom window with only an overnight bag and a change of clothes, the imprinted words he once wrote weighing heavy.

“You cut your hair,” she says as their feet hit the ground with a soft thud. It doesn’t take a mindreader to know that it's her way of paying him a compliment. He’ll take it.

 

 

 

viii.

As it turns out, his memory map is impeccable. They reach the tunnels without a major crisis, and when D hears that familiar clink, clink, clink, he knows he was right about the numbers U had written down for him on the back of the letter. They prove to be the key to entering the darkness underground.

The slope of the path is so negligible that he can barely feel them descending. For a while, they don’t speak at all as they make their way through the narrow passageway, but D is the first to break the silence.

“This is going to sound like a weird question, but…are you still taking your meds?”

B kicks at a stray pebble along the path. “Not anymore. S taught me how to hide them, but it turns out I’d been puking them up anyway. That’s why they were so  _concerned_  about me. About what I was doing to my body.” She looks up at him through darkened lashes. “It wasn't because they actually cared.  _Obviously_.”

He decides not to react to the tears that are obviously welling up in her eyes. She wouldn’t want him to call attention to it. “No, you’re right, they don’t,” he says. “But you know what? I wouldn't take it personally. I don’t think they care about anyone.”  _I’m not even sure “they" exist._ But he doesn’t say that, not yet.

“Where are we going?” she asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. There’s only one place he could possibly be taking her.

The darkness seems to deepen the further they travel underground. Their bodies cast long shadows across the walls. Their footsteps fall in sync and echo down the long tunnel as they continue walking. She doesn’t say anything else, but wipes at her eyes surreptitiously when she thinks he isn’t looking.

“Did you have pizza for dinner?” she says, unnecessarily. “‘Cause you know you smell like onions.”

He can't help but smile.

...

D knocks when they reach the entrance to The Archive. When there’s no answer, he tries the door. It opens easily.

U isn’t there waiting for them, as he had expected. But on the table near the door she's left a stack of paper, bound together by a dark blue thread. Somehow he knows before opening to the first page that this is her final written masterpiece. More than that, it turns out to be like a scrapbook, brimming with illustrations, found images, and cut-out magazine headlines.

He doesn’t read it all at once of course. There isn’t time. But as B wanders around, taking in the incredible space, D flips through the small book and catches a few sentences here and there. Some of it is difficult to read. There are secrets inside that she'd kept for almost half a century. He can’t begin to imagine how much bravery it must’ve taken to write it all down. 

Quickly, he skips to the last page, where he finds these words at the bottom: _D, please know that you were the best thing to happen to me since I first came to The Archive. You gave me the strength to believe that change was possible. By the time you get here and read this, I’ll be gone. But maybe I’ll see you on the other side._

At first, it sounds an awful lot like a suicide note.

“No!” he cries, in shock or maybe horror. He doesn’t want to believe it. He _can’t_ believe it. “No, no, no. Not yet. This wasn’t the plan." He races across the vast library in search for any hint of her, expecting the worst: a pool of blood, or a limp body dangling from the rafters. He finds none of that.

She’s not there at all. She isn't in any of the other rooms either. Maybe he's jumped to conclusions?  _I’ll see you on the other side._  That’s when it dawns on him. Maybe she already left without him. But then the question is, why?

“D, this place is—it’s amazing. It has everything.” B finds him sitting in an aisle filled with old movies, and she slides down to sit next to him. “Where’s your friend?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Something catches her eye, and she pulls a movie off the shelves. “We used to love this one."

D squints at the box she’s holding up, recognizing the figures on the cover. “Yeah, I remember. That is a good one.” He can’t quite muster up the enthusiasm. 

...

He gives her the grand tour, much like U did on his first day here. He even shows her the Screening Room, where he used to watch streams from the cameras around the city and take notes on all the inhabitants. All the screens have been switched off though. He’s thankful for that. Part of him still feels ashamed. He doesn’t want her to see that much right away.

He shows her the typewriter in his bedroom, inserting a fresh sheet of paper and demonstrating the gadget for her. He can tell by the look of awe on her face that the machine doesn’t seem so scary to her anymore. Now it almost feels like magic, the same as it did for him at first.

D still remembers spending weekend mornings at the park when he was a kid. He’d write messages in the dirt with a fallen tree branch when his father wasn’t looking, quickly stamping out the words with his feet before Rufus turned his head back. Sometimes his father seemed distracted. And of course there was that woman again, weaving in and out of his memory like a specter. Now that he really thinks about it, she was everywhere. D can’t remember her name now, but he’s fairly sure it was one of the flowers. And B would often be there at the park as well, sitting with Dorothea on the one of the wooden benches overlooking the lake and feeding the ducks with a stale loaf of bread. Back then, he never considered the possibility that she’d noticed his secret and kept it all that time.

Now B eyes the typewriter again, then looks back at D. “So what exactly did you write when you were down here all those months? Dreams? Love letters?” She smirks a little. "Grocery lists?”

He’s quiet for a few moments. She’s teasing him again, but he doesn’t know if that means she’s about to break his heart. She seems genuinely curious.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she says, backtracking. “I guess that’s probably a really private thing to ask someone.”

“No, that’s not it.” He has his left hand in his back pocket, ready to pull it out and give it to her. “It’s just—you have to promise not to laugh.”

“So you weren’t creating comedy routines. Got it.” She holds out a hand, but still he doesn’t relinquish the piece of paper.

“I’m serious, B.”

“Fine. I’m not going to laugh at you. Really, I’m not.” 

He hopes she can’t see his hand shaking as he gives her the letter. It’s exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once. He watches as she reads silently, mouthing the words with those lush lips as she tries to sound out each syllable. He sits back and examines her face. He’s already memorized the entire letter by now, right down to the punctuation.

When she’s finished, she looks up at him with a question in her eyes. Finally: “So did you write this for me, or are you trying to tell me you've met another B? Maybe that girl I’ve seen at those obnoxious Letter Parties with the long blond hair? She seems like your type.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“No, I’m sorry. That’s not fair. I guess I’m just a little scared because—“ B takes a deep breath,”—as hard as it is for me to admit, you’re the only one I can have a conversation like this with, too.” A shrug as she looks away. “It’s _insane_ , right?"

“Yeah, well, I don’t get it either.” He’s overcome with warring emotions suddenly. They hit him one by one, like heavy bricks. “Look, I’m not going to spend the rest of my life alone down here,” he tells her. “Okay? We’re going to find the way out."

She nods, like maybe she actually believes him. Like maybe she actually believes _in_ him. Time slows to a crawl. He barely knows what he’s doing as he reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. He lets his hand linger there afterwards, cupped around her cheek.

And before he’s had time to overthink it, he's leaning in. Or maybe she’s the one who starts moving towards him first. All he knows is they're slowly getting closer to each other, in more ways than one. And when their lips meet for the first time he almost feels like one half of a couple in an old black and white film. 

 

 

ix.

They watch a movie from The Archive that night, a series of flickering frames projected onto the cream-colored wall of his bedroom. They’ve never seen this particular one before, but D and B both recognize the two leads from other films. Neither says what the other is thinking: On the surface, what seems like a paranormal thriller with psychic visions and untimely deaths, might secretly be a romance hidden underneath all the mystique and tragedy. 

But it gets chilly down there at night. Just a few minutes into the film, and without so much as another word, B joins him under the covers and curls up against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

He soon realizes that it’s supremely hard to concentrate with her body pressed up against his, foreign feelings of desire gathering somewhere inside of him. To be fair, it doesn’t seem as if she’s paying too much attention to what’s happening on screen either.

...

There’s a steamy love scene halfway through the picture that catches them both by surprise. Normally he wouldn’t be embarrassed by such a thing, especially after spending nine months dutifully tracking cameras placed inside bedrooms. But with B beside him, he feels his face flush immediately. She swallows, avoids his gaze, the silhouette of her throat rising and falling perceptibly.  

The movie plays on. 

Reaching over, D fingers the strap of her dress, skims the curve of her bare shoulder with his open palm. She looks down at his hand, gives his face a quick glance, but doesn’t say anything. His heart is beating so fast he thinks it might burst right out of his chest. He's hyperaware of how his breath quickens. He’s hyperaware of how the rest of his body reacting, too.

The strap slides down past her shoulder as he reaches around her and starts unzipping the back of her dress as slowly as he can. His eyes are trained on her face the whole time, but in his mind, he pictures the metal teeth of the zipper parting on the other side. She barely even blinks. 

The movie plays on still, but by now the sights and sounds are only a blur in their periphery.

D reaches the end of the zipper, her straps falling a bit further down her arms. She doesn’t protest. He presses his mouth first to her neck, then travels down to the hollow formed by her clavicle before moving south past it, the tip of his tongue leaving a trail in its wake. 

She moans a little when he reaches the valley between her breasts. From her mouth he hears his letter and a soft hum: “D…”

He responds with a _B_ , perhaps incoherently.

She doesn’t seem to care. Her hands move to his chest as her fingers work the buttons on his shirt before grazing his belt and unfastening the buckle at a maddeningly unhurried pace. He's brushing aside the fabric of her dress with the tip of his nose as his mouth opens to claim another part of her. 

Neither of them has any idea what they’re doing, but they’re content in letting their bodies take the lead.

“D?"

“Hmm?” He pulls back, his parted lips hovering over exposed skin, and all she can feel is his hot breath in the cool air.

“Nothing. Don’t stop. Just—do that again."

He obliges, of course.

When they were younger they were always surprised and confounded that GG never called them out on their illegal film screenings. That TPTB never broke into the apartment to confiscate the tapes. Now they're half-expecting the law enforcement brigade to storm into their hideout and break them up before the credits roll, but of course nobody comes. It’s only them inside that room.

… 

When the movie’s over, they lie awake side-by-side, thinking, wondering.

D loves seeing this new side of her. It’s one he’s rarely been privy to till now. But bit by bit, she's allowing herself to be vulnerable in his presence. And that makes him feel more brave, too. Now, even without a typewriter in front of him, he starts writing again. 

She giggles a little at the sensation of his fingers brushing against her skin. “D, stop.” But she doesn’t seem to mind when he continues. "What are you writing?”

“Well, that’s a B, of course.” 

“Yeah? And what does the B stand for?” A wry smile. “ _Bulimia_?"

“No. The B—“ he writes it again, across her left shoulder blade, “—is for…bossy.” He traces each letter emphatically as she tries to stifle more involuntary laughter. “Brave.” He writes that, too. "Beautiful.” Her lips turn up at the corners—a broad, genuine smile—and he knows it’s true. Despite everything, he can’t quite think of anyone more beautiful than her. 

“Well, you know, there are a lot of words that start with the letter D, too,” B says, her eyes full of mischief as his face hovers over hers. "So two can play that game."

“Oh yeah?” It’s a challenge, and they both love a challenge.

“Yeah. I may not be the new _Archivist_ , but do I know a thing or two about the alphabet. Let me see—“ She rolls onto her side so she can return the favor, and starts by tracing a large D along his ribcage. “D is for _deranged_.” She gives him a wicked grin. “Disturbed. Demented.”

He smiles, too, in spite of himself. “You have to write it out or it doesn’t count.”

“Not fair! I can’t spell yet like you can.” _Yet._ She says _yet._

“Well then, you’re not allowed to call me any of those things. Those are the rules.” 

“Okay, D is for…” This time she searches for the right word before landing on it. “Dependable. How’s that? D-E-P…”

“...E-N-D...” he continues, and she traces the letters onto his skin.

“U?” 

“Actually, it's an A. But that’s not a bad guess. Vowels are tricky. A-B-L-E. Able.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh when she’s finished writing it out. “Dependable, huh? That makes me sound like some trusty kitchen appliance that never breaks down.”

“No, it makes you sound like a great person. And a great _friend_. Which is what you are.” She thinks for a moment, contemplating what’s just been said. "But, you know, it’s not all that you are.”  

“No, i guess not. We’re all a lot more than one thing, aren’t we?" 

“Yeah.” She holds him close, running a hand up and down his side as if trying to erase away the D she’s just written. Eventually, they doze off in each other’s arms. 

 

 

x.

They spend another week down there together, simply exploring the never-ending shelves of The Archive, before plotting their escape using the diagrams U had uncovered long ago.   

D shows B his favorite records and leaves them to spin on U’s abandoned turntable. They fill the expansive hollow with rich music that plucks at their heartstrings, then makes their bodies want to dance. He wishes his father could be there to hear it. He even lets B experiment with his typewriter, which they plan to pack up in its case and take with them when they leave. She quickly learns to construct words, then sentences, whole paragraphs. _A natural_ , D thinks.

Their official Naming Ceremony is still a month away, but they both understand now that they won’t be attending. And so they rebel by christening each other with the names they’ll use for the rest of their lives. When they each say the other’s name out loud for the first time, it feels foreign, like a new adult tooth as it's growing in. But for the first time in their lives, they also feel complete. Fully-formed.

 _Dan_ , she says.

 _Blair_ , he replies.

Merged together, the two names sound like a challenge, an act of courage, a risk taken.

_Dare._

… 

At first, he’s naturally suspicious every time she excuses herself to use the bathroom, but overall her mood seems to have lifted immensely, at least temporarily. Her eating habits don’t raise any red flags. For the remaining days, they live off the non-perishables stored away in the kitchen cabinets. No new food appears in the chutes, no new ribbons of ink. Not even any more pills.

During the nights, he finally has the opportunity to read U’s manuscript, cover to cover. It’s good, really good. There’s no denying that she has a gift for storytelling. Gut-wrenching at times, heartbreaking at others, but she still had a sense of humor hidden somewhere inside that tough exterior, and it shines through in her writing.

When he finishes the final pages, he sits for a minute trying to absorb what he’s just discovered. He finally understands now why she didn’t wait for him. At first he doesn’t quite believe it. It’s too far-fetched—there must be some mistake. But she’s pulled the clips from deep within The Archive, a short newspaper article that proves her fears aren’t unfounded. The evidence is all there.

"Well, shit,” Dan says out loud to no one in particular. It’s the first time he’s ever cursed in his life, but the new word feels appropriate for the situation. He glances across the room at Blair sleeping soundly in his bed, still oblivious to the lie. He looks around their surroundings for hidden cameras inside cracks or crevices. He thinks of the fucked up world they’re living in, and about the people who must be watching from somewhere far away. He thinks, again, about the essence of humanity. He thinks about consent versus naïveté. Idealism versus realism. And he thinks about what happens when the big bad he'd thought he was fighting takes on another form entirely. When what reveals itself as the truth is even more terrible than any fiction he could ever create.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I have to thank everyone who has been keeping up with this story, who has favorited or left kudos, and who has taken the time to leave such kind comments. I also want to thank you all for your patience. I really didn’t intend to take so long between chapters yet again, but the first half of this year seems to have gone by so quickly. Unfortunately, we’ve also come to the penultimate chapter of this story. There’ll be one more full chapter after this, and there might also be a short epilogue after that—I’m not sure yet. It all depends on whether I can fit everything I want into the next chapter. (I had to cut a couple scenes from this one, since it ended up being way too long, and I’m not sure yet where I can rearrange them instead.)
> 
> When I first started writing this in 2011, I had basically outlined all the major plot points through to the end of this chapter. In the years since, I just couldn’t ever figure out exactly how I wanted to conclude it, until now. That said, there were so many pockets of this world that I never got to explore along the way but wish I could’ve. I think the story could’ve been a much more fleshed out and drawn out narrative, but the fact is that I would never have time to finish something like that. If given the choice, I’m sure most of you would prefer a more condensed finished fic than an unfinished and meandering novel.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated. :)


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